Chapter 529 - 531: Righteous Hate

Mob mentality.

Truth be told, the human mind was easily influenced—people’s opinions on matters of any kind were swayed by the collective, by their relationship to the whole.

It’s for that reason public outrage spread so easily. All it took was a few people in a crowd lashing out, and the rest would follow. A single spark of violence was all it took.

An example? Catch a thief in a market square—just one person needs to act out, and the others will descend with them. In the end, nobody killed the thief, because everybody did.

Damon was facing that same type of monster now—the crowd.

Who would they believe? The word of one man they didn’t know?

Or the village head of a village they’d traveled to and traded with countless times?

Damon’s eyes scanned the growing frenzy. He spotted Seta dragging over a barrel of oil.

Honestly, he thought, a bit overkill for burning one man...

Still, Damon said nothing. His expression calm. Detached.

He’d seen this kind of madness before. He was experienced in mob violence—and he knew better than most that no words would stop it.

His words wouldn’t.

"Surround him!" someone yelled.

The young men of the village, the strongest and healthiest of them moved fast, circling him with ropes in hand.

He could have stopped them all.

Not with words. No those were useless now.

With violence.

How else do you control a group or an individual who refuses to listen to reason?

Violence is never the answer...

Until it’s the only answer.

Still, Damon chose restraint.

Not because he believed it would change anything, but because he wanted to give these people one more chance.

He was looking for a reason not to slaughter every last one of them.

"I didn’t do anything," Damon said, his voice firm, even, projecting across the rising noise.

"I am innocent."

His words echoed.

But no one listened.

They dragged him through the dirt toward the town square, chanting louder with every step:

"Burn him! Burn him!"

Damon offered no resistance. His face unreadable, calm—but in his eyes was the deep-seated disgust of a man who had seen this before.

Did they expect him to grovel?

To beg?

Never. Not to them.

In the village square, they had already set up the pyre. A pole. Hay and thatch piled up like a crude stage built for the show that was his death.

Clearly, they had built it before coming to find him. They didn’t care if he was innocent.

He was tied to the post without protest. His lack of struggle only emboldened them further.

"You... all of you," Damon began, his voice rising, pain now slipping into his anger.

"After everything my family has done for this village, this is how you repay us? You all betray us?"

He turned, locking eyes with a blue-haired man in the crowd.

"You. Alson. You got lost in the woods, didn’t you? My father spent days searching for you. Even when everyone else gave up believed you were dead."

Alson lowered his head, biting his lip.

Damon’s gaze shifted.

"Miss Dadind... your bakery went bankrupt. My mother gave you money to start again."

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

"Old man Ron," Damon snapped, "when your son left with some mercenaries—who helped you tend your fields? Who put food on your table? Who convinced your son to leave that violent life behind?"

The old man’s lips quivered. His son had told him. Damon’s father had.

Damon laughed, but there was no joy in it.

"That’s right. My father did.

Did I ask any of you to repay what you stole from me? No.

Yet you accuse me."

He turned slowly, locking eyes with the village head.

"And you... You were sick. My mother found an expensive potion and healed you. With her magic. Isn’t that right?"

Damon’s voice rose to a yell.

The village head said nothing. His lips pressed tight.

But Neil stepped forward, a sneer on his face.

"So what? That has nothing to do with you, thief. You’re a danger to this village."

He smirked, standing tall beside his parents.

"That’s right. He’s a disgrace to my cousin’s memory." His father added.

Then, chanting:

"Burn the thief! Burn the thief!"

They brought the oil.

Damon watched in cold silence.

So this is how it ends. I’m a danger to the village?

He caught the eye of a few from the caravan—the travelers he’d come with. They looked ready to fight for him.

But deep in the crowd, Singularity gave the faintest shake of his head. Stopping them.

This was Damon’s matter.

He wanted this—for some reason.

They dumped the oil over Damon’s head. It ran down his hair, soaked into his shirt, dripped to the kindling at his feet.

When he opened his mouth to speak again, someone gagged him. A cloth tied around his face—anything to stop him from swaying the crowd again.

Damon didn’t fight it.

’What did I expect from them?

When I was a childafter my parents died in the Demon Warsthese same villagers starved us. Me and my sister.’

’They beat us. Threw stones. Called us monsters. We were just children.’

’These people didn’t deserve to live.

Their vile progeny should never walk this earth.’

And yet... he understood.

They were small.

Small because they were afraid.

They wanted to protect their families.

He knew that.

But still...

"I’ve tried to see the best in them," Damon thought, "but all I see is malice. I’ve overlooked the worst in them—but it’s the only thing they ever show me."

He had tried.

Tried to live up to the philosophy and kindness of Carmen Vale.

To the wisdom of Valarie Sunwarden.

And yet—he was reminded, once again, why he had always seen the worst in people.

He would die today.

And for what?

Because he gave these people a chance.

The oil clung to his skin. Soaked the straw below.

The chants grew deafening.

He saw it—flickering firelight.

A torch. Passed into the village head’s hands.

The old man didn’t even hesitate. He passed it to Neil.

Neil approached slowly.

Grinning like a man who believed he was doing the world a favor.

He whispered.

"I am the last thing you’ll ever see, cousin..."

And then he dropped the torch.

Flames met oil.

The blaze rose fast and loud, engulfing Damon Grey in an instant.

A wave of heat pulsed outward.

And... nothing.

No scream.

Did he die instantly? From shock? From pain?

Then—

"Heheheheh... hahahahah..."

A low, echoing laugh rose from the fire.

The ropes turned to ash.

The tattered fabric burned away.

And the flames moved—with the figure of the burning man.

A voice echoed through the crackle of fire:

"Righteous hate turns men into monsters..."

Damon stepped forward, wreathed in fire.

His eyes glowed like coals.

"Fine.

You want me to treat you like beasts?

I will."